Free The Falstaff Vampire Files by Lynne Murray Page A

objection I raised increased Vi’s enthusiasm. “If he’s acting he’s better than any Falstaff I’ve seen on stage. If I can only keep him around long enough to go to the Ren Faire, he’ll be a major hit. He’s got some wonderful stories to tell. I think they’ll make a terrific book.”
    “He could be dangerous, Vi. Come in here.” I motioned her over. “I didn’t want to show you this. But I think he assaulted me.”
    “He was violent?” Her expression dimmed a little. “What do you mean you think he assaulted you?”
    “I went into some sort of a trance when I gave him a ride to the VA, and I woke up with this on my neck.” I held the hair back so she could see the marks on my neck.
    “Wow that is so cool!” Her voice was tinged with awe. “Maybe he really is a vampire.”
    “Violet!”
    “I’ll watch him. Okay? I’m a night person anyway, and I’ll just stay up tonight with him. In the daytime he’ll either sleep or die.”
    “Yes, well, what if he doesn’t do either? He could be on drugs or manic—some people with mania don’t sleep for days.”
    “Well, we should know by dawn. If he’s a real vampire, he’ll go to earth. Except—”
    “Except what?”
    “Except I’m out of cat food and I really do have to go out for just an hour or so to do my shopping. If I’m going to watch him and get his stories for the next week or more, I’ll need to get a bunch of groceries.”
    “Why don’t you let him help you?”
    “Look at how he’s dressed.”
    “So get him some clothing.”
    “I was hoping you’d do that. He says he has money, but I need some help—you’re more assertive—”
    I sighed. “Oh, all right.”

Chapter 25
    Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes
    August 6th continued
     
    Vi went to get her coat. I came back to the front room to find Sir John standing by a bookshelf holding an open volume, shifting from foot to foot, and muttering under his breath. “Look at this!”
    It was a copy of The Basic Writings of Sigmund Freud.
    “This is Freud, he was a physician in the early years of the 19th century—”
    “I know who he was, Mistress Kit!” His voice rumbled in deep base tones of rage. “A man couldn’t venture out of his coffin in the past century without hearing the name. But here I see the arrant knave slanders me.”
    He moved a pudgy finger down the page as he read. “…the fat knight, Sir John Falstaff, is based on economized contempt and indignation. To be sure, we recognize in him the unworthy glutton and fashionably dressed swindler.” He threw back his head and roared, “‘Glutton!’ he calls me. Swindler! Fashionably dressed, I grant you—when pocket permits. But how would he know a swindler, unless he himself was one?”
    “I had a colleague who called him ‘Sigmund Fraud.’”
    Sir John started to laugh. “A brother swindler!” He tossed the book down, open, on the table, and subsided into the armchair, arms and legs spread wide with a gesture that conjured up a youth who was considerably fitter and carried a sword.
    I ventured close enough to pick up the book and eluded his cheerful grab.
    “Sir John!”
    “Begging your pardon, madam. The ladies need more wooing, while a man stands, like a hungry vampire outside the door, begging invitation to enter.” He hung his head in mock contrition. “I await your pleasure, madam.”
    Vi was right, the man had an advanced degree in Renaissance Faire behavior. It was alarming how easy it was to fall into the illusion that he was a time traveler from Elizabethan England.
    I picked up the book, and examined the page he had been reading. “My recollection is that Freud did end up liking you, Sir John.”
    “Indeed?” For all the bluster in his voice the big man had subsided. He raised his eyebrows as if challenging the long-dead analyst. “The man recants his slander after heaping insults on my good name?”
    I took the book and looked little further down, “Here it is. ‘Sir John’s own humor